


La Campanella

by midnightmammary, smells_like_chloroform



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - College/University, Ballet, Ballet Dancer Harry, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Musician Niall, Mutual Pining, pianist niall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3811255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightmammary/pseuds/midnightmammary, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smells_like_chloroform/pseuds/smells_like_chloroform
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After weeks and weeks of playing for Harry’s class- playing for Harry himself- Niall had found a whole new muse. New keys, different melodies. Something more calming and...slower. Deeper somehow. He wanted light notes to match the sound of en pointe footfalls on hardwood, deep treble clef  undertones that sounded like slow, sleepy morning voices. The song he was itching to play was not matching his final piece- too many frantic runs and not enough feeling.. Sure it would show off his skill and talent but not his passion. Not really. Harry danced like he was the art himself. </p><p>or </p><p>Harry is the male lead in his college conservatory’s production of Swan Lake, and he’s more than a little taken with the new class accompanist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Campanella

**Author's Note:**

> Now the long awaited Narry Ballet AU from Intrepid-lens and castornotpollux on tumblr!  
> I wanted to give you guys a little something before my semester ends as many of you have been patient with me. Castor draws the art, I write the words and castor edits (thank the heavens). She's credited as a co-author for these reasons!  
> Hope you like! 
> 
> Please leave comments for our poor narry hearts.

art by [castornotpollux](http://castornotpollux.tumblr.com/post/114450149281/for-intrepid-lens-au-inspired-by-harrys-bun) 

        

Harry locked up the dorm room, keys jangling in his grip. The bags he held were forcing their way out of his arms -carrying too much of a load would do that. Curls fell to his face, and he momentarily regretted leaving his hair tie on his wrist. With a grunt, he shoved the top folds of his ballet slipper in his mouth biting with gums, avoiding the dirty bottoms, and flexed his biceps, hoping the extra strength would give the oomph he needed in order to finish up with the lock. With as long as he has been taking classes at this school, one would think he would have learned to pack more efficiently.

He walked down the hall briskly, breathing in the early morning air. The school was practically deserted at this hour, and Harry liked it that way. It was quiet, reserved, yet left one with a certain bright sense of anticipation, the way that wandering the halls of an extravagant conservatory in the early hours could. The ceilings were monstrously high and the delicate wood work bordering and gilded bannisters and window sills were dusted in the powder blue light of dawn. Truly the work of a more grandiose time period. It never failed to mesmerize Harry, and -when he had first arrived- never failed to get him lost either.

By his third year however, these walls and halls were second nature. A few right turns, down the courtyard and past the fountains loomed the staircase that Harry climbed daily. Here stood double doors, the locks old and unyielding, and heavy under the downward press of his thumb. They creaked as they opened into the large studio. Inside, small particles of dust-filtered light shone from the high windows across the oak floor, lowly illuminating it in long streaks- a sight he never tired of. He found his usual spot to the left and placed his bags aside began to wrap his feet.

There was nothing like stretching and dancing before an empty room, the mirrors all to himself and ambient space echoing his footfalls. The bar was cold to the touch. First, second, third positions were hardly necessary though, Harry assumed the stances by second nature. His arms outward and breathing in through his nose, he began his daily routine with croisé, croisée and a for the sake of it, a useless twirl. By now his hair was up and in place, his dance shorts on, only music was missing. The baby grand piano alone in the corner was illuminated in dust thanks to the rays of sunshine and Harry longed for it’s company.

Still he danced on, practicing whatever came to him and flowed through his veins. Harry was the sort to get lost in thought, so often in fact he spiraled into his own minds worries and sorrows that he forgot to resurface after a while. It’s these distilled nights where he’s left alone to wander universal thoughts that tie him up. Binds him. It’s emotionally tiring for someone so easily poetic by heart.  
Harry now knows you need space just to _feel_. There was a term for it he heard once. A point in which the mind is challenged enough to work but not overly so it wears you out. Some call it true inspiration, discovering something rather than learning it. Others deem this passion. It’s thorough and raw and healthy -thriving even. Ballet was this for Harry. Everything just sort of...came together.

8 am came fast and the rest of the students piled in as the first bell rang, clamoring for the best spots to sit and laces their slippers. It was properly morning now, with the sun a tad more radiant and bright filtering into the room, the hardwood floors being stomped on as heavy footfalls practiced warm-ups. Harry like usual, enjoyed this too. There was life in the room, he was laughing with others and telling his slow stories. Harry became vibrant in the presence of others.

“You look like you've been up a while. Not surprised.”

Harry grinned, knowing all too well that his sneaky morning routines were not as sneaky as he might like, and shrugged at the boy who had addressed him.

“I’m just a morning person.”

The other boy rolled his eyes as Harry’s dimple deepened further. His hands reached behind his head to undo the hair tie, reforming his wild hair together in a tight bun. To his right the doors creaked open, and he didn’t have to look up to know it was his teacher- the sound of her heels clicking against the wood paneling was all too familiar. Mrs. Watson was strict and a little proper, but had a bit of a soft spot for Harry. He was her favorite, and her protege, though she would never admit it aloud, and anyway Harry couldn't resist being a little extra darling around her. Made the day easier if the teacher was buttered up a bit.

“How are you today, Caroline? You look lovely.”

“Just fine Harry, and it’s Mrs. Watson to you. Don’t try your tricks, get to the bar.” She frowned at him and pointed but he didn’t miss the upwards quirk at the corner of her mouth before she clasped her hands together to address the class.

“We have music for today, I want all of you to start with the second act. It needs more work so get going.”

Harry found his place line with the others, his hand falling on the chalky bar and producing a little cloud of dust. Arms lifted above heads, dominoing down the line as each dancer ready themselves, gripping the bar, settling into the clicks of the metronome counting them into the first chords. Harry was poised, chest out, chin high, every muscle in his legs tensing, just on the brink of falling away into the broad swoops of his first few steps and breath catching in his lungs….  
and then the doors to the studio swung open.

The heavy oak carelessly slammed against the walls on either side of the entrance as the room was greeted with a flurry of sheet music and poorly contained curses and a stooping figure that was scrambling desperately to collect the fluttering papers that were gathering at his feet.

“Mr. Horan, we were about to start without you. I do not tolerate cursing in these halls. And seeing as you’re late, you better get to it.”

The boy- Horan, if Harry had heard right- tripped across the threshold clutching his binder, one hand coming to rest nervously behind his neck.

“Shit! Sorry!”

He glanced at the line of dancers gawking at him, and tripped again as he made eye contact with Harry, stumbling out and barely catching himself on the piano bench, turning a brilliant shade of pink when two of the girls nearest the piano giggled.

“Foks sake” he muttered under his breath.

The glare thrown the musician’s way was nothing, if not withering but Harry suspected Mrs. Watson was not as bothered as she was concerned with her reputation for a prodigious class atmosphere.

He hastily piled his binders on top of the baby grand in the corner and set about shuffling sheet music as he sat down. Once had found the correct page he settled back and began picking at his knee- a subconscious habit, Harry figured- his foot falling naturally to the pedals. The boy was oddly….captivating.

Mrs. Watson drew herself up, adjusting the collar of her warm up jumper and side-eyeing Horan before taking a sharp breath through her nose and counting them in in a more imperious tone than usual.

“Marks! Pas des Trois: Intrada- one, and two, and…”

Music began filling the room, the sounds of live piano gave the students a little more drive it seemed, their senses stimulated. The dancers raised their legs and one by one each student took their turn for individual work, others rested or practiced in a corner. The room was large enough for the students to gather and small clusters to whisper and rub their feet as Harry took the center of the studio under the strict scrutiny of Mrs. Watson. He was meant to be focusing on his lifting technique, carrying her gracefully across the floor, but his eyes couldn’t help but wander to the pianist. He stretched his neck just a little further to see if he is watching him too.

It’s instinct, Harry knows- he’s terribly flirtatious by nature. Place him in any situation with any person and he’s quick to learn what makes each one of them tick, what catches their attention and has them giving him more than a few once-overs. He’s a charmer. It’s not like he tries, per say, to catch everyones eye, it’s just...something he has always done. Only recently he’s noticed it himself (no thanks to Louis). When Louis had first introduced him to the new conservatory choreographer, and he had come off as sort of forward. Not intentionally of course, but both he and Louis worried that Liam thought he was coming on to him. Liam adamantly denies it to this day, always with a red faced protest and a shove and _No, absolutely not, Lou._ Louis however, has never let Liam live it down, and Harry isn’t sure why he won’t just drop it.

Harry’s attention was brought back to the present as Mrs. Watson coughed lightly.

“Harry you’re supposed to be holding my _waist._ ”

He brought his brows together in concentration and glanced away from Niall to try the lift again- stretch, bow, pick up the girl. Shouldn’t be hard. He was biting his lip and tensing his shoulders in anticipation, bracing himself to hoist Mrs. Watson above his head when the music faltered and then stopped altogether. He glanced up to find the new accompanist staring at him mouth slightly agape and finger resting on a black key that definitely didn’t belong in the piece.

“Niall dear, please.”

Mrs. Wattson let out a sigh that sounded far too long suffering to be meant for an accompanist who had only been here one day.

“Alright! From the top! One and two and...”

Harry managed to finish class without dropping his instructor, but only barely. He’d caught himself glancing at the boy behind the baby grand every few bars, and if he had almost let Mrs. Watson slip from his grasp, it certainly wasn’t because he was watching the way the light filtered through the long studio windows and caught the tips of the accompanist’s dyed quiff. Certainly not.

He certainly wasn’t peeking glances the boy as he shoved his warm-ups into his bag, and if he was lingering in the back of the studio as the other student filtered out, it wasn’t really with the intention of eavesdropping on his teacher and the new accompanist, it was just coincidence that he overheard their whispered conversation. Mrs. Watton was looming over the pianist on the bench, who was in turn making a show of shoving his music back into his folders and not looking at her.

“Niall, Mrs. Teasdale assured me you are her best, and I’m inclined to trust her, but you really must be on tempo at all times, it’s imperative for my dancers. And you must be punctual.”

“Yes, miss”

“Care to explain what happened today?”

Niall shuffled his feet around the edge of the piano bench, preparing for escape and picking at the shell of his ear nervously, still refusing eye contact. When he spoke it was rambling and nearly unintelligible through his accent.

“I was just having a smoke and I lost track of time. Lost me watch a few days ago and I had headphones in so I missed the bell I’m so fucking sorry…”

He was cut off with the dismissive wave of a hand as Mrs Watson flipped her braid over her shoulder,

“Just make sure it doesn’t happen again. And don’t swear! Now leave, you’re late. Best make it a bit of a run.”

Harry was too busy watching Niall tangle himself in his own chicken legs in his haste to get out of the studio to notice Mrs. Wattson behind him until it was too late. She dropped her prim facade for a moment and smacked him sharply on the upper thigh with her slipper, making him yelp in surprise.

“Didn’t your mum ever tell you it’s not polite to listen in on other people’s conversations? No ogling my assistants either. And move your arse, I’m not writing you a pass this time.”

If he had to guess, Harry thought his cheeks might be just as red as the deep maroon drapes that covered the studio’s mirrors.  
Great.  
\---

The pianist from Monday didn’t come back to class for three whole days, and Harry found himself wandering the halls later usual after class hoping to run into him. His mind wandered over breakfast, thinking about how much better he had danced while backed by live music- wondering if it had more to do with the piano or the boy sitting behind it…

On Thursday, Harry was later than usual. He jogged to class, taking two stairs at time and tripping over himself as he tried to knot his hair back while he ran. When he entered the studio, he was not the first one there. Harry glanced around quickly before making his way to his usual spot, kindly left open for him in the far left corner, and turning his attention to his bags- wrapping his feet and chalking them up. Only a few other students were there, but those who were sent Harry odd looks, no doubt wondering why he hadn’t been up to open the studio like usual. He was lead male, his devotion and love for his art was well known to the others- naturally, his absence was nothing short of bizarre.

He was jolted from his thoughts by a booming cackle, and when he looked up he was greeted by blue eyes and a shock of blond hair. The pianist.

He was accompanied by the senior choreographer in apprenticeship, Liam.

“Harry mate, you look like you were late today! You alright?” Liam fixed him with a sort of doe eyed look of concern, but Harry was fixated on the boy that was shuffling his feet and leaning slightly on Liam’s left shoulder. Liam didn’t seem to notice.

“Louis said he’d be stoppin by for, well... I don’t know what. He didn’t say. But that’s Louis for you.”

“Err, yeah. Likes to pop in on Wednesdays. Maybe Zayn’s coming too.”

There was a pause in which Harry carded his hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth out his bun and urgently hoped he look alright. _Of all the mornings to wake up late..._  
Liam finally broke the silence turning and clasping the pianist shoulder

“You’ve met Niall, yeah?”

“Don’t think we have actually,” Niall beamed, “Not properly, anyway.” The boy adjusted the folders tucked under his arm so he could extend a hand towards Harry and, _oh_. He saw flecks of green in blue eyes and took Niall’s hand after a beat. His grip was firm but small and Harry’s confidence went a little shaky.

His voice came out a little breathier than usual…

“Hi, I’m Harry.”

\--

[intrepid-lens](intrepid-lens.tumblr.com) and [castornotpollux](http://castornotpollux.tumblr.com/post/114450149281/for-intrepid-lens-au-inspired-by-harrys-bun) 

**Author's Note:**

> I swear there is a plot. Maybe next chapter will be more interesting.


End file.
